Mark Twain’s Patented Inventions for Bra Straps and Other Everyday Items

Twain Brastrap

Much has been made of Mark Twain’s finan­cial problems—the impru­dent invest­ments and poor man­age­ment skills that forced him to shut­ter his large Hart­ford estate and move his fam­i­ly to Europe in 1891. An ear­ly adopter of the type­writer and long an enthu­si­ast of new sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy, Twain lost the bulk of his for­tune by invest­ing huge sums—roughly eight mil­lion dol­lars total in today’s money—on a type­set­ting machine, buy­ing the rights to the appa­ra­tus out­right in 1889. The ven­ture bank­rupt­ed him. The machine was over­com­pli­cat­ed and fre­quent­ly broke down, and “before it could be made to work con­sis­tent­ly,” writes the Uni­ver­si­ty of Virginia’s Mark Twain library, “the Lino­type machine swept the mar­ket [Twain] had hoped to cor­ner.”

Twain’s seem­ing­ly blind enthu­si­asm for the ill-fat­ed machine makes him seem like a bun­gler in prac­ti­cal mat­ters. But that impres­sion should be tem­pered by the acknowl­edge­ment that Twain was not only an enthu­si­ast of tech­nol­o­gy, but also a can­ny inven­tor who patent­ed a few tech­nolo­gies, one of which is still high­ly in use today and, indeed, shows no signs of going any­where. I refer to the ubiq­ui­tous elas­tic hook clasp at the back of near­ly every bra, an inven­tion Twain patent­ed in 1871 under his giv­en name Samuel L. Clemens. (View the orig­i­nal patent here.) You can see the dia­gram for his inven­tion above. Call­ing it an “Improve­ment in Adjustable and Detach­able Straps for Gar­ments,” Twain made no men­tion of ladies’ under­gar­ments in his patent appli­ca­tion, refer­ring instead to “the vest, pan­taloons, or oth­er gar­ment upon which my strap is to be used.”

Twain Scrapbook

The device, writes the US Patent and Trade­mark Office, “was not only used for shirts, but under­pants and women’s corsets as well. His pur­pose was to do away with sus­penders, which he con­sid­ered uncom­fort­able.” (At the time, belts served a most­ly dec­o­ra­tive func­tion.) Twain’s inven­tions tend­ed to solve prob­lems he encoun­tered in his dai­ly life, and his next patent was for a hob­by­ist set of which he him­self was a mem­ber. After the soon-to-be bra strap, Twain devised a method of improve­ment in scrap­book­ing, an avid pur­suit of his, in 1873.

Pre­vi­ous­ly, scrap­books were assem­bled by hand-glu­ing each item, which Twain seemed to con­sid­er an over­ly labo­ri­ous and messy process. His inven­tion—writes The Atlantic in part of a series they call “Patents of the Rich and Famous”—involved “two pos­si­ble self-adhe­sive sys­tems,” sim­i­lar to self-seal­ing envelopes, in which, as his patent states, “the sur­faces of the leaves where­of are coat­ed with a suit­able adhe­sive sub­stance cov­er­ing the whole or parts of the entire sur­face.” (See the less-than-clear dia­gram for the inven­tion above.) The scrap­book­ing device proved “very pop­u­lar,” writes the US Patent Office, “and sold over 25,000 copies.”

twain-game

Twain obtained his final patent in 1885 for a “Game Appa­ra­tus” that he called the “Mem­o­ry-Builder” (see it above). The object of the game was pri­mar­i­ly edu­ca­tion­al, help­ing, as he wrote, to “fill the children’s heads with dates with­out study.” As we report­ed in a pre­vi­ous post, “Twain worked out a way to play it on a crib­bage board con­vert­ed into a his­tor­i­cal time­line.” Unlike his first two inven­tions, the game met with no com­mer­cial suc­cess. “Twain sent a few pro­to­types to toy stores in 1891,” writes Rebec­ca Onion at Slate, “but there wasn’t very much inter­est, so the game nev­er went into pro­duc­tion.” Nonethe­less, we still have Twain to thank, or to damn, for the bra strap, an inven­tion of no small impor­tance.

Twain him­self seems to have had some con­tra­dic­to­ry atti­tudes about his role as an inven­tor, and of the sin­gu­lar recog­ni­tion grant­ed to indi­vid­u­als through patent law. Per­haps unsur­pris­ing­ly, the US Patent Office claims that Twain “believed strong­ly in the val­ue of the patent sys­tem” and cites a pas­sage from A Con­necti­cut Yan­kee in King Arthur’s Court in sup­port. But in a let­ter Twain wrote to Helen Keller in 1903, he expressed a very dif­fer­ent view. “It takes a thou­sand men to invent a tele­graph, or a steam engine, or a phono­graph, or a tele­phone or any oth­er impor­tant thing,” Twain wrote, “and the last man gets the cred­it and we for­get the oth­ers. He added his lit­tle mite—that is all he did. These object lessons should teach us that nine­ty-nine parts of all things that pro­ceed from the intel­lect are pla­gia­risms, pure and sim­ple.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mark Twain Wrote the First Book Ever Writ­ten With a Type­writer

Play Mark Twain’s “Mem­o­ry-Builder,” His Game for Remem­ber­ing His­tor­i­cal Facts & Dates

Mark Twain & Helen Keller’s Spe­cial Friend­ship: He Treat­ed Me Not as a Freak, But as a Per­son Deal­ing with Great Dif­fi­cul­ties

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Great Depression Cooking: Get Budget-Minded Meals from the Online Cooking Show Created by 93-Year-Old Clara Cannucciari

“The Depres­sion was not fun,” the late YouTube star, Clara Can­nuc­cia­ri, states in the very first episode of her Great Depres­sion Cook­ing web series, above. Her first recipe—Pasta with Peas—would like­ly give your aver­age urbane food­ie hives, as would her knife skills, but Clara, who start­ed mak­ing these videos when she was 93, takes obvi­ous sat­is­fac­tion in the out­come.

Her film­mak­er grand­son Christo­pher Can­nuc­cia­ri wise­ly kept Clara in her own kitchen, rather than relo­cat­ing her to a more san­i­tized kitchen set. Her plas­tic paper tow­el hold­er, linoleum lined cab­i­nets, and teapot-shaped spoon rest kept things real for sev­er­al years worth of step-by-step, low bud­get, most­ly veg­e­tar­i­an recipes.

Her fruit-and-ging­ham ceram­ic salt and pep­per shak­ers remained con­sis­tent through­out.

How many tele­vi­sion chefs can you name who would allow the cam­era crew to film the stained tin­foil lin­ing the bot­tom of their ovens?

Nona­ge­nar­i­an Clara appar­ent­ly had noth­ing to hide. Each episode includes a cou­ple of anec­dotes about life dur­ing the Great Depres­sion, the peri­od in which she learned to cook from her thrifty Ital­ian moth­er.

She ini­tial­ly dis­liked being filmed, agree­ing to the first episode only because that was grand­son Christopher’s price for shoot­ing a pre-need funer­al por­trait she desired. She turned out to be a nat­ur­al. Her celebri­ty even­tu­al­ly led to a cook­book (Clara’s Kitchen: Wis­dom, Mem­o­ries, and Recipes from the Great Depres­sion), as well as a video where­in she answered view­er ques­tions with char­ac­ter­is­tic frank­ness.

To what did she attribute her youth­ful appear­ance?

Clean liv­ing and large quan­ti­ties of olive oil (poured from a ves­sel the size and shape of a cof­fee pot).

How to avoid anoth­er Great Depres­sion?

“At my age, I don’t real­ly care,” Clara admit­ted, “But for the younger gen­er­a­tion it’s bad.” In the worst case sce­nario, she coun­sels stick­ing togeth­er, and not wish­ing for too much. The Depres­sion, as we’ve men­tioned, was not fun, but she got through it, and so, she implies, would you.

The series can be enjoyed on the strength of Clara’s per­son­al­i­ty alone, but Great Depres­sion Cook­ing has a lot to offer col­lege stu­dents, undis­cov­ered artists, and oth­er fledg­ling chefs.

Her recipes may not be pro­fes­sion­al­ly styled, but they’re sim­ple, nutri­tious, and unde­ni­ably cheap (espe­cial­ly Dan­de­lion Sal­ad).

Home­made Piz­za—Clara’s favorite—is the antithe­sis of a 99¢ slice.

The tight belts of the Great Depres­sion did not pre­clude the occa­sion­al treat like hol­i­day bis­cot­ti or Ital­ian Ice.

Those on a lean Thanks­giv­ing bud­get might con­sid­er mak­ing Clara’s Poor Man’s Feast: lentils and rice, thin­ly sliced fried steak, plain sal­ad and bread.

Right up until her final, touch­ing appear­ance below at the age of 96, her hands were nim­ble enough to shell almonds, pur­chased that way to save mon­ey, though crack­ing also put her in a hol­i­day mood. Food­ies who shud­der at Pas­ta with Peas should find no fault with her whole­some recipe for her mother’s home­made toma­to sauce (and by exten­sion, paste).

You can watch all of Clara’s video’s on the Great Depres­sion Cook­ing chan­nel. Or find Sea­sons 1 and 2 below.

Sea­son 1:

Sea­son 2:

Sea­son 3:

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The New York Times Makes 17,000 Tasty Recipes Avail­able Online: Japan­ese, Ital­ian, Thai & Much More

Sci­ence & Cook­ing: Harvard’s Free Course on Mak­ing Cakes, Pael­la & Oth­er Deli­cious Food

MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once (Free Online Course)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She recent­ly co-authored a com­ic about epilep­sy with her 18-year-old daugh­ter. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

An Interactive Timeline Covering 14 Billion Years of History: From The Big Bang to 2015

For his final project in Beza­lel Acad­e­my of Arts and Design in Jerusalem, Matan Stauber cre­at­ed His­tog­ra­phy, an inter­ac­tive time­line that cov­ers 14 bil­lion years of his­to­ry. The time­line, writes Stauber, “draws his­tor­i­cal events from Wikipedia, and it self-updates dai­ly with new record­ed events.” And the inter­face lets users see his­to­ry in small­er chunks (decades at a time) or big­ger ones (mil­lions of years at a time). To get a vague feel for how His­tog­ra­phy works, you can watch the video above. But real­ly the best way to expe­ri­ence things is to dive right in here.

Fol­low Open Cul­ture on Face­book and Twit­ter and share intel­li­gent media with your friends. Or bet­ter yet, sign up for our dai­ly email and get a dai­ly dose of Open Cul­ture in your inbox. And if you want to make sure that our posts def­i­nite­ly appear in your Face­book news­feed, just fol­low these sim­ple steps.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

6,000 Years of His­to­ry Visu­al­ized in a 23-Foot-Long Time­line of World His­to­ry, Cre­at­ed in 1871

An Inter­ac­tive Map of Odysseus’ 10-Year Jour­ney in Homer’s Odyssey

The His­to­ry of Mod­ern Art Visu­al­ized in a Mas­sive 130-Foot Time­line

Big His­to­ry: David Chris­t­ian Cov­ers 13.7 Bil­lion Years of His­to­ry in 18 Min­utes

Free Online His­to­ry Cours­es

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Freed Slave Writes Letter to Former Master: You Owe Us $11,680 for 52 Years of Unpaid Labor (1865)

Jordan_Anderson_Image

No mat­ter how long I live, the dehu­man­iz­ing insan­i­ty of racism will nev­er fail to aston­ish and amaze me. Not only does it vis­it great phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal vio­lence upon its vic­tims, but it leaves those who embrace it unable to feel or rea­son prop­er­ly. Con­tem­po­rary exam­ples abound in excess, but many of the most egre­gious come from the peri­od in U.S. his­to­ry when an entire class of peo­ple was deemed prop­er­ty, and allowed to be treat­ed any way their own­ers liked. In such a sit­u­a­tion, odd­ly, many slave mas­ters thought of them­selves as humane and benev­o­lent, and thought their slaves well-treat­ed, though they would nev­er have trad­ed places with them for any­thing.

One such exam­ple of this bewil­der­ing log­ic comes from a let­ter written—or dic­tat­ed, rather—by a man named Jor­dan Ander­son (or some­times Jour­dan Ander­son), pic­tured above: a man enslaved to one Colonel Patrick Hen­ry Ander­son in Big Spring, Ten­nessee. When he was freed from sub­jec­tion in 1864, Jor­dan moved to Ohio, found work—was paid for it—and set­tled down for the next 40 years to raise his chil­dren with his wife Aman­da. As Allen G. Breed and Hil­lel Ital­ie write, “he lived qui­et­ly and would like­ly have been for­got­ten, if not for a remark­able let­ter to his for­mer mas­ter pub­lished in a Cincin­nati news­pa­per short­ly after the Civ­il War.”

As did many for­mer slave own­ers, Colonel Ander­son found that he could not keep up his hold­ings after los­ing his cap­tive labor force. Des­per­ate to save his prop­er­ty, he had the temer­i­ty to write to Jor­dan and ask him to return and help bring in the har­vest. We do not, it seems, have the Colonel’s let­ter, but we can sur­mise from Jordan’s response what it contained—promises, as the for­mer slave writes, “to do bet­ter for me than any­body else can.” We can also sur­mise, giv­en Jordan’s sar­don­ic ref­er­ences, that the for­mer mas­ter may have shot at him—and that some­one named “Hen­ry” intend­ed to shoot him still. We can sur­mise that the Colonel’s sons may have raped Jordan’s daugh­ters, Matil­da and Cather­ine, giv­en the har­row­ing descrip­tion of them â€śbrought to shame by the vio­lence and wicked­ness of their young mas­ters.”

And, of course, we know for cer­tain that Jor­dan received no rec­om­pense for his many years of hard work: “there was nev­er any pay-day for the negroes,” he writes, “any more than for the hors­es and cows.” Despite all this—and it is beyond my com­pre­hen­sion why—Colonel Ander­son expect­ed that his for­mer slave would return to help prop up the fail­ing plan­ta­tion. On this score, Jor­dan pro­pos­es a test of the Colonel’s “sin­cer­i­ty.” Tal­ly­ing up all the wages he and his wife were owed for their com­bined 52 years of work, less “what you paid for our cloth­ing” and doctor’s vis­its, he presents his for­mer own­er with a bill for “eleven thou­sand six hun­dred and eighty dol­lars” and an address to which he can mail the pay­ment. “If you fail to pay us for faith­ful labors in the past, we can have lit­tle faith in your promis­es in the future,” he writes. You can read the full letter—which appeared at Let­ters of Note—below.

Day­ton, Ohio,

August 7, 1865

To My Old Mas­ter, Colonel P.H. Ander­son, Big Spring, Ten­nessee

Sir: I got your let­ter, and was glad to find that you had not for­got­ten Jour­don, and that you want­ed me to come back and live with you again, promis­ing to do bet­ter for me than any­body else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yan­kees would have hung you long before this, for har­bor­ing Rebs they found at your house. I sup­pose they nev­er heard about your going to Colonel Mar­t­in’s to kill the Union sol­dier that was left by his com­pa­ny in their sta­ble. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still liv­ing. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the bet­ter world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was work­ing in the Nashville Hos­pi­tal, but one of the neigh­bors told me that Hen­ry intend­ed to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know par­tic­u­lar­ly what the good chance is you pro­pose to give me. I am doing tol­er­a­bly well here. I get twen­ty-five dol­lars a month, with vict­uals and cloth­ing; have a com­fort­able home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learn­ing well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preach­er. They go to Sun­day school, and Mandy and me attend church reg­u­lar­ly. We are kind­ly treat­ed. Some­times we over­hear oth­ers say­ing, “Them col­ored peo­ple were slaves” down in Ten­nessee. The chil­dren feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no dis­grace in Ten­nessee to belong to Colonel Ander­son. Many dark­eys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you mas­ter. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be bet­ter able to decide whether it would be to my advan­tage to move back again.

As to my free­dom, which you say I can have, there is noth­ing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Mar­shal-Gen­er­al of the Depart­ment of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back with­out some proof that you were dis­posed to treat us just­ly and kind­ly; and we have con­clud­ed to test your sin­cer­i­ty by ask­ing you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us for­get and for­give old scores, and rely on your jus­tice and friend­ship in the future. I served you faith­ful­ly for thir­ty-two years, and Mandy twen­ty years. At twen­ty-five dol­lars a month for me, and two dol­lars a week for Mandy, our earn­ings would amount to eleven thou­sand six hun­dred and eighty dol­lars. Add to this the inter­est for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our cloth­ing, and three doc­tor’s vis­its to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the bal­ance will show what we are in jus­tice enti­tled to. Please send the mon­ey by Adams’s Express, in care of V. Win­ters, Esq., Day­ton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faith­ful labors in the past, we can have lit­tle faith in your promis­es in the future. We trust the good Mak­er has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in mak­ing us toil for you for gen­er­a­tions with­out rec­om­pense. Here I draw my wages every Sat­ur­day night; but in Ten­nessee there was nev­er any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the hors­es and cows. Sure­ly there will be a day of reck­on­ing for those who defraud the labor­er of his hire.

In answer­ing this let­ter, please state if there would be any safe­ty for my Mil­ly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-look­ing girls. You know how it was with poor Matil­da and Cather­ine. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the vio­lence and wicked­ness of their young mas­ters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the col­ored chil­dren in your neigh­bor­hood. The great desire of my life now is to give my chil­dren an edu­ca­tion, and have them form vir­tu­ous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for tak­ing the pis­tol from you when you were shoot­ing at me.

From your old ser­vant,

Jour­don Ander­son.

Sev­er­al his­to­ri­ans have researched the authen­tic­i­ty of Jordan’s dic­tat­ed let­ter and the his­tor­i­cal details of his life in Ten­nessee and Ohio. As Kot­tke report­ed, a man named David Gal­braith found infor­ma­tion about Jordan’s life after the letter’s pub­li­ca­tion, includ­ing ref­er­ences to him and his wife and fam­i­ly in the 1900 Ohio cen­sus. Kot­tke pro­vides many addi­tion­al details about Jordan’s post-slav­ery life and that of his many chil­dren and grand­chil­dren, and the Dai­ly Mail has pho­tographs of the for­mer Ander­son plan­ta­tion and Jor­dan Anderson’s mod­ern-day descen­dants. They also quote his­to­ri­an Ray­mond Win­bush, who tracked down some of the Colonel’s descen­dants still liv­ing in Big Spring.

Colonel Ander­son, it seems, was forced to sell the land after his plea to Jor­dan failed, and he died not long after at age 44. (Jor­dan Ander­son died in 1907 at age 81.) “What’s amaz­ing,” says Win­bush, “is that the cur­rent liv­ing rel­a­tives of Colonel Ander­son are still angry at Jor­dan for not com­ing back.” Yet anoth­er exam­ple of how the ignominy of the past, no mat­ter how much we’d pre­fer to for­get it, nev­er seems very far behind us at all.

via Let­ters of Note

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1.5 Mil­lion Slav­ery Era Doc­u­ments Will Be Dig­i­tized, Help­ing African Amer­i­cans to Learn About Their Lost Ances­tors

Visu­al­iz­ing Slav­ery: The Map Abra­ham Lin­coln Spent Hours Study­ing Dur­ing the Civ­il War

Watch Vet­er­ans of The US Civ­il War Demon­strate the Dread­ed Rebel Yell (1930)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Interior of the Hindenburg Revealed in 1930s Color Photos: Inside the Ill-Fated Airship

Hindenburg 1

We’ve all seen the Hin­den­burg. Specif­i­cal­ly, we’ve all seen it explod­ing, an inci­dent cap­tured on film on that fate­ful day of May 6, 1937 — fate­ful for those aboard, of course, but also fate­ful for the pas­sen­ger air­ship indus­try, which nev­er recov­ered from this worst of all pos­si­ble press. The con­tem­po­rary rise of Pan Amer­i­can Air­lines did­n’t help, either, so now, when we want to go to a far­away land, we’ve usu­al­ly got to take a jet. I hap­pen to be mov­ing to Korea tomor­row, and to get there I sim­ply don’t have the choice of an air­ship (Hin­den­burg- class or oth­er­wise) nor have I ever had that choice. I’ve thus nev­er seen the inside of an air­ship — until today.

Hindenburg 2

These col­or images reveal the inte­ri­or of not just any old 1930s air­ship but the Hin­den­burg itself, look­ing as gen­teel and well-appoint­ed as you might expect, with accom­mo­da­tions up to and includ­ing, some­where below its hydro­gen-filled bal­loon, a smok­ing room. It brings to mind Sideshow Bob’s off­hand com­ment on one Simp­sons episode lament­ing the pas­sage of “the days when avi­a­tion was a gentleman’s pur­suit, back before every Joe Sweat­sock could wedge him­self behind a lunch tray and jet off to Raleigh-Durham.” But then, it also brings to mind anoth­er episode in which Bart gets a check­book print­ed with flip­book-style images of the famous Hin­den­burg dis­as­ter news­reel footage.

Hindenburg 3

That clip, often dubbed with Her­bert Mor­rison’s “Oh, the human­i­ty!” repor­to­r­i­al nar­ra­tion, has famil­iar­ized us with the last large pas­sen­ger air­ship’s exte­ri­or, but these images of its inte­ri­or have had less expo­sure. For more, have a look at Airships.net: a Diri­gi­ble and Zep­pelin His­to­ry Site, which offers a wealth of detail on the Hin­den­burg’s pas­sen­ger decks, con­trol car, flight instru­ment, flight con­trols, crew areas, and keel.

Passenger-Lounge1

The more you learn about air­ships, the more intrigu­ing a form of trav­el they seem — until you learn about all the oth­er dis­as­ters that pre­ced­ed the Hin­den­burg, any­way. And that aside, giv­en its top speed of 84 miles per hour, it would take a sim­i­lar­ly retro air­ship at least sev­en times longer to get me to Korea than a jet, so I guess I’ll have to stick with the air­lines for now.

Dining-Room-21

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Oh the Human­i­ty

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry Of Avi­a­tion: From da Vinci’s Sketch­es to Apol­lo 11

The Mir­a­cle of Flight, the Clas­sic Ear­ly Ani­ma­tion by Ter­ry Gilliam

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Hand-Colored 1860s Photographs Reveal the Last Days of Samurai Japan

Samurai Japan 1

Any fan of samu­rai movies knows the elab­o­rate lengths some pro­duc­tions can go to in order to recre­ate the look and feel of old Japan, but glo­be­trot­ting Ital­ian-British pho­tog­ra­ph­er Felice Beato (1832 — 1909) actu­al­ly man­aged to cap­ture those days on cel­lu­loid first-hand. He arrived in Japan in 1863, at the very twi­light of the era of the samu­rai, a time he doc­u­ment­ed evoca­tive­ly with a series of hand-col­ored pho­tographs of sub­jects like “kimonos, para­sols, baby’s toys, bas­ket sell­ers, cour­te­sans at rest and a samu­rai gang ready for action,” as the Guardian lists them in their gallery of Beat­o’s Japan­ese work.

Samurai Japan 2

“After spend­ing over two hun­dred years in seclu­sion, Japan was being forced by the Amer­i­cans — under a mis­sion led by Com­modore Matthew C. Per­ry — to expand its trade with the west,” writes Dan­ger­ous Minds’ Paul Gal­lagher, describ­ing the unprece­dent­ed moment of Japan­ese his­to­ry in which Beato found him­self, one that pro­vid­ed the oppor­tu­ni­ty to pho­to­graph not just the last of the samu­rais but also the cour­te­sans they loved. But all this had its risks: “Trav­el was dan­ger­ous in Japan,” Gal­lagher adds, “with many of the Shogu­nate samu­rai war­riors killing west­ern­ers,” a fate Beato nar­row­ly avoid­ed at least once.

samurai in color

Hav­ing pho­tographed in Con­stan­tino­ple, India, and Chi­na before Japan, Beato moved on after it to oth­er parts of Asia, includ­ing Korea and Bur­ma, before return­ing to his native Italy at the very end of his life. But his pic­tures of Japan remain among the most strik­ing of his entire career, per­haps because of their artis­tic use of col­or, per­haps because of a his­tor­i­cal time and place that we think we’ve come to know through so many sword-and-sui­cide epics. Their char­ac­ters, from the hon­or-bound samu­rai to the sly cour­te­san to the sim­ple mer­chant, can seem to us a bit the­atri­cal as a result, but Beat­o’s pho­tographs remind us that they all began as very real peo­ple. Who might they inspire to make a film about their real lives?

Samurai Japan 4

Samurai Japan 5

Samurai Japan 6

via The Guardian/Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hand-Col­ored Pho­tographs of 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan

Adver­tise­ments from Japan’s Gold­en Age of Art Deco

Glo­ri­ous Ear­ly 20th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Ads for Beer, Smokes & Sake (1902–1954)

Ear­ly Japan­ese Ani­ma­tions: The Ori­gins of Ani­me (1917–1931)

A Pho­to­graph­ic Tour of Haru­ki Murakami’s Tokyo, Where Dream, Mem­o­ry, and Real­i­ty Meet

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Fly Through 17th-Century London’s Gritty Streets with Prize-Winning Animations

Crit­ics did not love 2004 film The Lib­er­tine, star­ring John­ny Depp as dis­solute 17th cen­tu­ry poet and court favorite John Wilmot, the sec­ond Earl of Rochester. The Guardian fault­ed its grim tone and his­tor­i­cal inac­cu­ra­cies and called it “grimy and pre­ten­tious.” I dis­agree with this take, but a fond­ness for Rochester (and for the peri­od in gen­er­al) bias­es me in the movie’s favor. Addi­tion­al­ly, as some admir­ing crit­ics point­ed out, dour script­ing aside, the film’s depic­tion of 17th cen­tu­ry Lon­don is indeed most con­vinc­ing. You can almost feel the muck that clings to every­thing, and smell the rank stench of body odor bare­ly cov­ered by per­fume. Writer Kather­ine Ashen­burg has called the 17th cen­tu­ry “prob­a­bly the dirt­i­est cen­tu­ry in West­ern his­to­ry” (Lon­don didn’t clean up for anoth­er cou­ple hun­dred years), and The Lib­er­tine takes pains to bring the period’s filth to vivid, stink­ing life.

Which brings us to anoth­er authen­tic recre­ation of 17th cen­tu­ry Lon­don, one we’ve fea­tured here before and that you can see again at the top of the post. Designed by six plucky stu­dents from De Mon­fort Uni­ver­si­ty, the three-minute CGI tour through the city’s sooty Tudor streets before The Great Fire of 1666 resem­bles a video game; but it also gives us a per­sua­sive sense of the city’s scale, lay­out, and, yes, it’s grim­i­ness. In our pre­vi­ous post, we quot­ed Lon­don­ist, who not­ed, “Although most of the build­ings are con­jec­tur­al, the stu­dents used a real­is­tic street pat­tern [tak­en from his­tor­i­cal maps] and even includ­ed the hang­ing signs of gen­uine inns and busi­ness­es.” Though its unsan­i­tary streets are emp­ty, one can eas­i­ly imag­ine walk­ing them in this prize-win­ning ani­ma­tion. Less invit­ing, how­ev­er, are those 17-cen­tu­ry Lon­don streets at night in anoth­er, eight-minute ani­ma­tion below, cre­at­ed by anoth­er De Mont­fort team called Tri­umphant Goat.

Bra­ziers and lanterns glow­er in dank alley­ways, a fore­bod­ing haze hangs in the night air, hand-drawn want­ed posters adorn the walls, and pools of mud­dy water col­lect among rough cob­ble­stones. Here, I can imag­ine John­ny Dep­p’s Rochester pick­ing his way along a dusky side street, head­ed for some clan­des­tine assig­na­tion with a sta­ble­boy or scullery maid. You can read about the mak­ing of this night­time scene here, where team mem­ber James Teeple dis­cuss­es the research meth­ods and tech­ni­cal objec­tives of the project, in terms that make it sound as though this is one lev­el of a video game, although it isn’t clear what the game is about. “We real­ly pushed the idea of this being a His­tor­i­cal recre­ation,” writes Teeple, “so that meant too much cre­ative license was a bad thing in our eyes.”

Final­ly, in the video below, we see a bright­ly-lit tour of St. Paul’s Cathe­dral, beau­ti­ful­ly ren­dered, if over­all a less pol­ished pre­sen­ta­tion than the two tours above. This ani­ma­tion was pre­sum­ably cre­at­ed by De Mont­fort design stu­dents as well, though there’s lit­tle infor­ma­tion on its Vimeo page. Though the city was sig­nif­i­cant­ly redesigned after the 1666 fire, in these first two ani­ma­tions espe­cial­ly, we get a sense of the city Samuel John­son described sev­en­ty years after that great con­fla­gra­tion as a place where “mal­ice, rap­ine, acci­dent, con­spire, / And now a rab­ble rages, now a fire.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Curi­ous Sto­ry of London’s First Cof­fee­hous­es (1650–1675)

A Drone’s Eye View of Los Ange­les, New York, Lon­don, Bangkok & Mex­i­co City

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Mr. Rogers Goes to Congress and Saves PBS: Heartwarming Video from 1969

What kind of delu­sion­al self-aggran­diz­er, called to tes­ti­fy before a Unit­ed States Sen­ate Sub­com­mit­tee, uses it as an oppor­tu­ni­ty to quote the lyrics of a song he’s writ­ten… in their entire­ty!?

Sounds like the work of a cer­tain rapper/prospective polit­i­cal can­di­date or per­haps some daffy buf­foon as brought to life by Ben Stiller or Will Fer­rell.

Only children’s tele­vi­sion host Fred Rogers could pull such a stunt and emerge unscathed, nay, even more beloved, as he does above in doc­u­men­tary footage from 1969.

Mis­ter Rogers’ impulse to recite What Do You Do With the Mad That You Feel to then-chair­man of the Sub­com­mit­tee on Com­mu­ni­ca­tions, Sen­a­tor John Pas­tore, was ulti­mate­ly an act of ser­vice to the Cor­po­ra­tion for Pub­lic Broad­cast­ing and its child view­ers.

New­ly elect­ed Pres­i­dent Richard Nixon opposed pub­lic tele­vi­sion, believ­ing that its lib­er­al bent could only under­mine his admin­is­tra­tion. Deter­mined to strike first, he pro­posed cuts equal to half its $20 mil­lion annu­al oper­at­ing bud­get, a mea­sure that would have seri­ous­ly hob­bled the fledg­ling insti­tu­tion.

Mr. Rogers appeared before the Com­mit­tee armed with a “philo­soph­i­cal state­ment” that he refrained from read­ing aloud, not wish­ing to monop­o­lize ten min­utes of the Committee’s time. Instead, he sought Pas­tore’s promise that he would give it a close read lat­er, speak­ing so slow­ly and with such lit­tle out­ward guile, that the tough nut Sen­a­tor was moved to crack, “Would it make you hap­py if you did read it?”

Rather than tak­ing the bait, Rogers touched on the ways his show’s bud­get had grown thanks to the pub­lic broad­cast­ing mod­el. He also hipped Pas­tore to the qual­i­ta­tive dif­fer­ence between fre­net­ic kid­die car­toons and the vast­ly more thought­ful and emo­tion­al­ly healthy con­tent of pro­gram­ming such as his. Mr. Roger’s Neigh­bor­hood was a place where such top­ics as hair­cuts, sib­ling rela­tion­ships, and angry feel­ings could be dis­cussed in depth.

Rogers’ emo­tion­al intel­li­gence seems to hyp­no­tize Pas­tore, whose chal­leng­ing front was soon dropped in favor of a more respect­ful line of ques­tion­ing. By the end of Rogers’ heart­felt, non-musi­cal ren­di­tion of What Do You Do… (it’s much pep­pi­er in the orig­i­nal), Pas­tore has goose­bumps, and the Cor­po­ra­tion for Pub­lic Broad­cast­ing has its 2 mil’ back in the bag.

What do you do with the mad that you feel

When you feel so mad you could bite?

When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong…

And noth­ing you do seems very right?

What do you do? Do you punch a bag?

Do you pound some clay or some dough?

Do you round up friends for a game of tag?

Or see how fast you go?

It’s great to be able to stop

When you’ve planned a thing that’s wrong,

And be able to do some­thing else instead

And think this song:

I can stop when I want to

Can stop when I wish.

I can stop, stop, stop any time.

And what a good feel­ing to feel like this

And know that the feel­ing is real­ly mine.

Know that there’s some­thing deep inside

That helps us become what we can.

For a girl can be some­day a woman

And a boy can be some­day a man.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mr. Rogers Intro­duces Kids to Exper­i­men­tal Elec­tron­ic Music by Bruce Haack & Esther Nel­son (1968)

Mr. Rogers Takes Break­danc­ing Lessons from a 12-Year-Old (1985)

Pup­pet Mak­ing with Jim Hen­son: A Price­less Primer from 1969

Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s new play, Fawn­book, debuts as part of the Bad The­ater Fes­ti­val in NYC tomor­row night. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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